


Someday in the Month of Wind

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: Every end marks a new beginning.





	Someday in the Month of Wind

He stood with his hands behind his back, arm clasped at the wrist, chin tucked into the collar of an outfit he could not bring himself to change out of no matter how many whispers and side glances it brought him: a coal-black leather jacket with a double-row of buttons, dusted by the road, no longer bloodied by a sacrificial knife, and most importantly, _warm_. It did not matter how much they stared at it; he had worn the garb for so long that it felt unnatural to see himself in anything else.

It was strange how small the world seemed to have become after stepping out of the Void. Before, his route had been mapped by the paths of endless desires bought through blood and carved bone, living century to century watching as human injustice cycled through insurgence, peace, greed, and then corruption. Now he saw only shallow faces, pretty, dressed-up words uttered by pretty, dressed-up dolls. He could not remember finding much interest in the nobility. He could grant them nothing they did not already take for granted.

The cold, coastal winds blowing in from Dunwall's coast had been a bitter welcome: colder than the winds which powered the Serkonan windmills. Colder even than the chill of Shindaerey Peak. The void, by its very nature, held neither heat nor chill. Temperature was a concept only in distant memory, in some forgotten corner of the part of him which had once been human. His first step into the outside world after four thousand years of nothing, when the sun and wind had sliced his skin, had come like the rude shock of a blacksmith's steel being quenched in seawater. He had shivered back then, shading his pale eyes from a light he had never thought he would see. Shivered and nearly blinded himself again trying to sear its brilliance into his memory, until a touch on the arm from Lurk had wrenched his gaze away.

"Come on," she had said quietly. "Let's get you out of this place."

Clenching his empty fist, he tilted his chin up towards a newly commissioned portrait of Empress Emily Kaldwin. Every bit as regal as her mother, every bit as single-minded as her father. The mark she had borne on her hand until recently was artfully concealed from the painter beneath a pair of black, silk gloves. The brush strokes... Sokolov, if he wasn't mistaken. Unable to remain idle even at his advanced age. The line of his mouth twitched upwards, mirroring his painted opposition.

The Empress' invitation had found him in Serkonos, perhaps a month after he had left the mountains. Lurk had disappeared quickly, leaving him tins of food, a pouchful of coins, and a knife. Not _the_ knife - it was a simple blade favoured by assassins and muscle alike. Lurk had taken the twin-bladed one with her, saying she would keep it safe, keep it out of curious hands so that history would not be repeated. He knew enough of humans to know history always, _always_ repeated itself. But, he thought, thinking back to how she had vanished into that inexplicable portal, perhaps she might be able to keep it hidden for a few millennia.

His eyes swept the gathered nobles, lingering on faces both familiar and alien. Familiar because the echo of their desires pawed at his memory, just beyond reach; alien because he could not put name or face to them. They turned their eyes away from him yet continued to stare, whispering, he knew, of his likeness to the portraits.

All at once the murmurs stilled. The crowd parted for a man in black. They wore a collapsible sword at their hip and their face was framed by dark, close-cut hair. At their appearance, he found a familiar smile paring across his lips as he turned.

"Dear Corvo," he greeted warmly, enjoying the sour look the other man shot him. He maintained his little smile while they gave him a once-over.

"The Empress wants a word with you." Gruff; no 'Emily', no comment on his appearance. Corvo twitched his fingers, striding back towards the throne at the back and centre of the hall. The whispers resumed after his passing, more frequent, wary looks tossed his way as the men and women made way for Dunwall's Royal Protector - a man HE had sculpted with words and a black mark on one hand. A man with more spine than any of these simperers had been born with.

Through the parted sea of petticoats and suits, he saw her.

Empress Emily Kaldwin, first of her name, sitting straight-backed in her mother's throne. First a scared, young girl; now a canny ruler. Dark eyes tracked his path to her, and if she took offence at his lack of bow or kneel then she did not show it.

Corvo took his place at her shoulder, hands clasped behind his back, feet planted surely apart. The Royal Protector was relaxed but his eyes scanned the hall beyond.

Emily's gaze lingered on only one face. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. I hope the journey wasn't too long."

"Not long. It was colder than I thought. But also warmer. I can't decide if I prefer it to where I was...before." He could swear the ears of every man and woman were leaning in, soaking every word like parched rags to be wrung out later in their social buckets.

It was not out of spite that he denied them but a glimmer of mischief. What stories would they circulate of him outside the Void?

Emily Kaldwin was not so catty but she knew the court and its gossip-mongers. She rested her cheek against the backs of her fingers, one elbow propped on her throne's arm, and said, "Dunwall's streets do suffer from sea drafts on occasion, but it isn't nearly as bad as the Tyvian tundra. Or so I hear."

Oh. Oh, was this a small dig at that poor wretch who had come from the far north? He tilted his head.

"Smooth seas do not make a good sailor. I'm sure your people would agree," he rejoined humorously.

That brought forth a faint smirk. "Indeed." The Empress' gaze flicked behind him briefly. She sat straighter. "We shall talk more later," she said. Then in a quieter tone of voice, "I would hear news of the realm."

He raised his eyebrows. "Your Imperial Majesty surely has more reliable sources...?"

She waved a hand, letting out a very un-Empress-like snort. "I want a fresh perspective. A view from the other side of the mirror, so to speak."

Corvo shifted behind her but did not utter a word. From the twitch of muscle in the man's cheek, he assumed the Royal Protector was trying not to laugh.

He bowed to Emily, mimicking the many he had seen the nobles give her minutes earlier. It was only slightly sarcastic. "As you wish."

Another wave. He was dismissed for now. He stepped back and melted into the well-dressed crowd, circling the canapés and wine before coming to rest with a glass and small plate in his hands. As he delicately sampled Dunwall's finest, his cold, clear eyes watched the young girl - now a young woman - whisper into her father's ear. Corvo nodded, straightened, and strode out of the room through a door behind the throne while beckoning to one of the guards.

How quickly empires rose and fell. From assassination to decimation to uprising and reclamation, how quickly the wheel of human advancement turned. Through adversity rose strength, and through strength came rule. He would look on from the sidelines, as he ever had, as he ever would, waiting to see how the shape of history was moulded by her hands.

Looking on as an outsider.

**Author's Note:**

> Side notes:  
> \- The 'man from the north' is Zhukov, featured in the follow-up novel to Dishonored, _The Corroded Man_.  
>  \- It seems to be suggested during _The Wyrmwood Deceit_ that Billie is able to time-travel post-events of _The Death of the Outsider_. You can see her carrying the twin-bladed knife on the final page.


End file.
